The Haze
by Ulura
Summary: Sherlock wakes up, injured and confused on the floor of 221b, the last two days a complete blank. He must struggle not only to recover but to figure out what happened to him and most importantly, find his missing friend John Watson. Warnings blood
1. Chapter 1

**This was inspired by the opening scene to 'The Man in the Morgue' an episode of Bones. But that's where the similarities end, I'm not gonna write a voodoo story XD**

**Please tell me your thoughts :)**

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><p>Images flashed through Sherlock's mind, hazy and confusing. Just as one formed it disappeared before he could make sense of it and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't recall what the flash had been a few seconds later. Not that he had time to, his brain was sluggish and soon another flash of memory would come and go taking his mind off it.<p>

He realized much later than he should of that he was waking from unconsciousness, the flashes of memory dazed him behind closed lids. Desperately he tried to focus on them but his brain wasn't working.

A spear, no a knife? A face, but who did it belong to?

Sounds flitted through now, echoing through his mind, yelling mostly. He couldn't seem to make sense of many of the words.

"_Sherlock!"_

"_No! Don't!"_

"_Stop it, please!"_

"_**NO!"**_

The last cry jerked him awake and with that came the blurry image of white tiles that seemed to move and sway sickeningly. He became aware that he was in a significant amount of pain, but his thoughts were so confusing and sluggish he couldn't pin point their origins. The tiles mercifully stopped blurring and became still as he blinked slowly, the white was invaded with red, blood.

Shakily he raised his head, taking in the sight of the bathroom, he was at Baker Street, he knew that at least. But, what had happened, he tried to remember but his mind was fuzzy and his head hurt too much to go to his Mind Palace. The best, solid memory he could dig up was heading out to dinner at Angelo's with John. They had just finished a case and John was adamant he eat. Lestrade had waved them off happily, saying he'd call soon with a new case. However it had been a long case and any food in the fridge was either off or soaked in experiments. They stepped into the street and headed for Angelo's and then...nothing.

Limbs aching and trembling he reached up for the sink that was above his head to try and pull himself up. However the minute he applied pressure to his hand pain flared and he slammed back into the tiles. A small gasp of pain escaped his as he smashed into the ground, clutching his hand lightly. He looked down to see them both completely red with blood, so red in fact he couldn't figure out where the cuts were located, however they must be there, they sure felt like they were.

Once again he grasped the porcelain sink and pulled himself up, this time ready for the pain he knew would occur in his palms. With a lot more effort than should of been necessary he dragged himself weakly to his feet. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror he felt his stomach churn, which was rare for him. He'd seen dozens of gruesome murders far worse than this, but the sight of his own reflection was so shocking and horror filled he couldn't help it.

His dark hair was knotted and dirty with blood and muck, a large gash on the side of his forehead insured many of the dark curls were plastered to the skin. His cheeks were both bruised to varying degrees and a large cut was drawn across the left one from his eye to his lip. These injuries were enough to ensure much of his face was coated with red, what remained was so white it was almost translucent. His shirt was ripped slightly at the seems and it was missing at least two buttons, one held on by a thread. However the purple shirt was now also coated in patches of blood in various stages of drying. He could tell not all of it had come from wounds, therefore was most likely not all his. It was as if somebody with bloody hands had touches his arms, then again if the state of his palms was anything to go by, it could of been his own.

His neck was bleeding also, soaking a good portion of the shirt near his shoulder. the blood was thick and clotted near his ear, indicating that's where the injury was.

He stepped forwards slightly to get a better look was alerted to a stabbing pain in his ankle, he looked down to find a small razor embedded in it. It was in deep, best not to remove it until he was sure it wasn't severing any major veins or arteries.

Stumbling toward the door he became aware of the other bruises that littered his limbs, however he swiftly ignored them. He needed to find a phone or some form of help before he passed out from blood loss, it was a miracle he managed to wake up now as it was. Finally his brain caught up, where was John?

Last he remembered he'd been with John, now where was he? What if he was in the flat as well, in the same state of Sherlock?

"John...!" Sherlock called, the name came out in parts, his throat was too dry.

Worse still there was no reply.

He made it out to his room and then to the hall that lead to the lounge, taking in the smears of blood along the wall and floor. From the size of them he'd have to guess it was his own doing. He'd arrived here injured and made his way to the bathroom before passing out, why couldn't he remember it? The clock on the wall read 10:30am, when did he get here?

When he got to the kitchen he saw his phone on the floor, it was bloodied, he must of been holding it, then dropped it, opting to use the wall for support. Why didn't he call anybody?

He got his answer as he examined it, the screen was cracked and it refused to turn on, however closer inspection revealed it needed charging. It may not actually be broken. Shakily he managed to plug in the cord, bringing his phone to life mercifully. His first instinct was to call John, he needed to know where he was, that he was safe. However he was still dazed and the first thing that popped up were several missed calls from Lestrade. Too confused about his situation to care he hit redial, simply because it took less energy and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Sherlock? Where have you been?" Lestrade's voice answered after a few rings.

"I...I-I'm not sure..." Sherlock shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts, the only thing he achieved was a headache.

"Sherlock are you ok?" Lestrade's voice became panicked, "I've been trying to get a hold of you for days!"

"Days?" Sherlock questioned, "What...day is it?"

"Thursday, Sherlock," Lestrade said slowly sounding concerned, "Don't you know that?"

"But, I saw you on Monday..." Sherlock reasoned feeling a small amount of panic. How could he of forgotten two whole days?

"Yes Sherlock..." Lestrade yelled something to somebody else before returning to the conversation, "Sherlock don't you remember? Where have you been these last two days?"

"I don't know?" Sherlock admitted, hissing as he leant to hard on his injured side.

"You're hurt" Lestrade noted, "I'm on my way ok just tell me where you are."

"Baker Street," Sherlock replied, "Lestrade I...I can't remember...is John with you?"

"No," Lestrade replied worriedly, Sherlock could hear him closing the door of a car, "I haven't heard from either of you since we said goodbye on Monday night."

"He's not here...at least I don't think so..." Sherlock sighed, he was tired. His legs slipped out from under him and he gave another short cry of pain as they hit the hard flooring.

"Sherlock! What happened?"

"I fell..." He muttered, "Lestrade we've gotta find John..."

"I know." Lestrade replied obviously trying to calm the detective and simultaneously keep him conscious, "Hang on for a bit Sherlock I'm almost there."

How could this of happened on Mycroft's watch? Sherlock was almost positive he at least had the flat bugged if not under video surveillance, surely he would of at least come and helped him if he knew what a state he was in. Sherlock was so confused and hurt he wouldn't of cared if his brother inflicted his presence upon him now, especially if he had answers.

"Mycroft..."

"What's that Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, the detective realized he'd said his brothers name aloud.

"Mycroft, he should've help..." Sherlock explained as best he could with his head pounding, "Why's he not 'ere?"

"Sherlock stay awake ok?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, why had he done that? He knew Lestrade couldn't see him. Either way he stayed awake, leaning against the leg of the kitchen table. The sound of pounding feet on wooden stairs soon met his ears, as well as a door being thrown open.

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade?"

"Oh my God! Sherlock!"

He felt Lestrade sit him up, he looked the man blearily in the eye, his face was shifting in and out of focus.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance to 221b Baker Street now!"

Lestrade must of been on the phone. Where was John? He didn't like hospitals, John knew that, he'd take care of him instead.

"John..." Sherlock called weakly

"We'll find him don't worry" Lestrade soothed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped against the table, he'd used all his energy getting here and calling the inspector, he didn't have drop left. He was vaguely aware that Lestrade was calling to him, telling him to do...something. He couldn't make sense of the words. The pain of his injuries dulled and he was pulled into blessed darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all the reviews :) They keep me inspired!**

**Please tell me your thoughts :)**

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><p>The next few waking hours were a drug induced haze for Sherlock. He vaguely remembered coming to when he was injected with something before swiftly passing out again. The next time he awoke he felt various hands tending to his wounds, he groaned as something stung the cut on his forehead. Weakly he tried to use his hand to bat it away but the limb felt as if it were made of lead, barely rising at all before gentle hands pushed it back down. For some reason that made him panic, struggling against the force. It didn't matter he was beyond weak from blood loss and drugs. Later he would vaguely remember calling for John and voices he didn't recognize tell him to be calm.<p>

The third time he awoke he was blissfully numb, not the normal kind when your body was healthy though, the medicated kind. The type of numb that made his skin tingle and his body heavy, however it was marginally better than being in pain. He blinked his heavy lids open and found himself in a hospital room, sheets coming up to his armpits. The arms themselves were laying over the blanket both heavily bandaged. His hands and fingers were completely covered in white strips, there was an IV in each arm, one with blood, one with medication of some kind. He turned his head slowly and came face to face with his reflection in a silver metal tray propped up against the wall. By the looks of it, it was for holding surgical tools, somebody had sat it there after use.

He looked better than the last time he saw his own face, much better. His skin was still very pale but the cuts had been stitched up, making him look like some demented frankinstine. However the blood was cleared away and he'd been cleaned during his black out. He could feel bandages around his mid section was well. The increase on his heart monitor must of alerted the doctors because the door opened to reveal a man in blue scrubs, Lestrade wasn't far behind.

"Ah good you're awake," The inspector smiled, "How do you feel?"

"Strange..." Sherlock admitted finally, "Where's John, did you find him?"

Lestrade stiffened.

"Inspector I think it best we let my patient rest for a little longer before you start you investigation." The doctor cut in. Sherlock's brow furrowed, What investigation?

"Sir I want you to tell me everything you can about the last two days," The doctor asked gently.

"Leaving for dinner with John, on Monday then...nothing." Sherlock said slowly, "You're hiding something Lestrade, tell me!"

"You don't remember anything at all?" The doctor confirmed, "Not even a hazy detail?"

"There are, flashes" Sherlock said finally, "But I can't...I don't understand them, they are there then they are gone. Now, I answered your questions now answer mine!"

The doctor held up his hands defensively, sighing and heading for the door.

"He's all yours"

The door closed with a quiet click, Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

"Well, we looked at your injuries and most of them are congruent with a struggle" Lestrade began, Sherlock snorted.

"Obviously Lestrade, I'm not just going to stand there and let somebody do this to me" He indicated to his injuries. Thankfully the heaviness was leaving him enough to move his arms a bit.

"Yeah well," Lestrade started again uncomfortably, "Quite a bit of the blood on your clothes was yours obviously but...not all of it"

"Well who's is it?" Sherlock snapped, he really wished people could just get to the facts.

"Listen Sherlock, there was a lot of their blood on you, almost two liters worth" Lestrade continued, "The most obvious answer being the person who you fought with"

"Yes and it appears I may or may not of killed him in self defense I understand that Lestrade get on with it we need to find John!" Sherlock snapped

"That's the thing Sherlock...it's John's blood" Lestrade said slowly.

Sherlock was stunned into silence. John's blood? No it couldn't be, that would mean he'd...but he'd never kill John! John would never attack him! Sure John had the strength to inflict these injuries but he never would. John was his...friend right?

"We're still running tests to find more evidence but, that's what he have so far" Lestrade continued after Sherlock didn't reply.

"You're sure you don't remember?" Lestrade probed, Sherlock glared at him.

"Don't you think if I remembered I'd be figuring this out a lot faster?" He snarled

"It's just, you said 'I may or may not of killed **him**' before," Lestrade pointed out, "How could you know it was a man?"

Sherlock's mouth opened but no sound came out. Did he really say that? Perhaps he was remembering on a subconscious level, that had to be it. But he refused to believe the man he was attacking was John, never John.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called, "Come on say something, Sherlock please."

**Flash!**

Sherlock groaned as a bright white light invaded his vision for a second, leaving him dazed and seeing spots. To stop the wave of dizziness he closed his eyes, resting his face in his palm. He could hear voice but they were muddled between reality and memory. There was another flash, this time the voice of Lestrade and the doctors disappeared completely.

_He was standing in a cold room with a stone floor and concrete walls. The only light came from a small window at the top of the room, they were mostly underground, the window was at ground level. He had something metal in his hand, what was it? A pipe? A gun? He couldn't make his memory self look down to check. He was looking down at something on the ground. Somebody._

_John._

_He was on his knees, one hand wrapped around his stomach staunching the blood flow. His head was turned up, looking at Sherlock standing above him, how long had they been here?_

_"Sherlock please..." John begged._

**Flash!**

Sherlock gasped as he was thrown from the memory back into the present time. He could hear the sound of his heart monitor beeping much too fast and Lestrade calling to him, somebody was shaking him. He looked up to see the doctor.

"Mr. Holmes can you hear me?"

He nodded, wanting nothing more than to bat the annoying physician away, the only doctor he wanted was John. The memory played itself over in his head, much less violently that time. He'd been standing over an injured John, he had a weapon in his hand, he didn't know what kind but he knew it was a weapon. John had begged him, to do...what?

Surely he couldn't of been begging for mercy...Sherlock would never attack John no matter what he'd done, not like that.

Right?

"Must of been a flash back," The doctor concluded, "What did you remember?"

"John," He answered simply, "He was...hurt."

"Were you the one hurting him?" The doctor raised an eyebrow.

'I don't know' Sherlock thought

"No." He replied, "He was asking me to help him..."

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked, a lot more gently than the doctor. Sherlock shook his head.

"Well then" The doctor said after he finished taking notes, "Your injuries are extensive but now that they have been taken care of, not life threatening, I'd like to keep you under surveillance will go into more detail about your injuries later, Otherwise, you should be able to leave late tomorrow"

Thank goodness for that, he'd hate having to spend too much time here. However it was still too long, he had to get the time shortened.

"That's too long, I need to find John"

"I've got half the yard on it Sherlock," Lestrade insisted, "We're looking for him I promise."

"I can't help but wonder Mr. Holmes" His doctor said as he opened the door, "You seem very worried about your...'friend'."

"I didn't kill him, he was my friend" Sherlock said defensively, "That blood is purely circumstantial."

"That may be true Mr. Holmes but if you are such great friends, why did you leave him when he was obviously injured?" The doctor asked, Sherlock felt his stomach drop.

Lestrade swore and left to yell at the doctor, Sherlock hardly noticed.

He had a point, those blood smears clearly showed he'd made his way home on his own free will. His memory showed John was injured, why would he leave John behind? He'd rather die than abandon John. So why would he leave him?

Unless...unless he'd been the one to attack John, been injured in self defense, finished the job and left...

No. He would never of killed John, not by his own will that was for sure.

He was becoming emotional, all these feelings were clouding his judgment. There was no solid proof that John was even dead. Yes he had lost a lot of blood but not enough to been conclusive proof of death. He was out there somewhere, injured and he needed Sherlock to save him. And he would.

Because he didn't kill John.

He didn't hurt John...


	3. Chapter 3

**I wrote this at 3am while on a camping trip so if its a little messy I apologise XD **

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><p>Sherlock didn't sleep that night. He stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, focusing on trying to figure out his memories. Going to his mind palace didn't help, he couldn't seem to order his thoughts, his mind was still a blank in places. He'd never forgotten anything without meaning to, sure he'd deleted things but never this much. And never memories involving John.<p>

He was exasperated, not only with Lestrade and the hospital staff but with himself. John could be bleeding out on a cold floor somewhere and he was laying here in a hospital bed. For the thirtieth time that night he examined his memory of standing over the injured doctor, trying to will himself into remembering what the metal object in his hand was.

And whether he'd just used it on his friend.

Finally he couldn't stay still any longer, his eyes snapped open to reveal a very dark room. It was still late, late enough that only a skeleton crew would be on the floor of the hospital, making a quick trip to the lab easy enough. A few minutes of concentration and he'd rigged his heart monitor to keep beeping, the wiring was crude, but it would last for at least fifteen minutes. Making sure to sneak a copy of his chart under his hospital scrubs he made his way out into the darkened hall. Abandoned, as he expected. Getting to the lab barely took any of his brain power, even with the drugs in his system, God people were stupid.

As he walked down the last corridor to the lab he opened up his file and read it, there was no chance anybody would catch him now. There were the injuries he'd cataloged himself before hand as well as several other small things he'd missed in his daze. Dehydration, slight malnutrition, bruised ribs, several unidentified substances in the blood and a cracked sternum.

All together that was an impressive list, especially after only two days. Sherlock felt a strange twisting in his stomach, it took him a few moments to realize it was worry, not for himself but for John. What ever hell he'd been in, odds were John was still in it. He opened the door and was welcomed by the strong smell of chemicals, usually this relaxed him, this time it didn't.

Instead a deep feeling of dread filled his mind, he could feel an imaginary cloth covering his mouth and nose. A wave of dizziness assaulted the detective as the smell of chloroform filled his nostrils.

The feelings passed as soon as it had come, however it still took a few seconds for the young mans vision to clear. Chloroform... most likely that was used to ambush John and himself to bring them to their location for the last two days. The tight feeling in his stomach continued, he needed to find John soon.

His first job was to find his blood sample to test for himself, his blood was most likely clean by now, he just had to hope some of the samples from before were still around. It took several long minutes to find a vile with his sample, the filing system was not at all innovative. He barely had ten minutes before his wiring failed and nurses discovered his absence, he would need to work quickly.

As reported a strange mixture of drugs was within the sample, he'd been pumped full of something unpleasant. What ever it was, it wasn't conventional. Even his great brain couldn't get the substance to separate, he could tell it was a mixture of several substances. Unlike the obviously idiotic hospital staff, Sherlock managed to separate a small sample. One of the ingredients in the horrible concoction was the H.O.U.N.D drug. That could not be good, at least 30% of the new drug had been the Baskervile drug, more than likely it was the base in which the mixture was comprised.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The shrill voice made Sherlock physically cringe, why did all nurses have such unbearably high voices in the hospital?

"You gave half the staff a heart attack!" The plump woman continued, Sherlock didn't spare her a glance, he continued with his experiments.

"Come back to bed at once!" She ordered, the detective could feel his temper rising.

"Let me work" He growled, he needed to solve this! Needed to find his friend, didn't they understand?

"I must insist!" She raised her voice, grabbing him lightly by his arm, Sherlock hated being touched by people. Especially people he didn't know, his temper flared again.

**Flash!**

His hands flew to his eyes as the white light invaded his vision once again, followed by black spots as last time. At least this time he had an idea of what was happening.

_He was angry, no, he was furious! He'd never been so angry in his entire life, so this is what rage felt like..._

_He lunged forward, ignoring his own injuries and pain, hands closing around another mans throat. For once in his life he wasn't thinking about what was the most logical move to end the fight quickly. This time he just wanted to hurt, cause his victim as much pain as humanly possible. He could feel the other man struggling against him, clawing his face..._

When Sherlock 'woke' from his flashback he was on the floor, he didn't remember falling. The nurse was taking his pulse, he swiftly yanked his hand awake and heaved himself into a sitting position. His chest twinged with pain, he chose to ignore it, he had bigger things to worry about.

Who had he been attacking? He'd never felt rage like that before, what could possibly of installed such a feeling in the detective? He ground his teeth together in frustration, it had defiantly been a man he was attacking, judging by the feel of the muscle under his palms. Again he felt doubt creeping up on him. All the signs were pointing toward him attacking John and John attacking back. He wanted to refuse it but he was a creature of logic and logic told him he'd tried to kill his only friend.

For once in his life he went with his heart on a matter, deciding to ignore the facts. He was a sociopath, not a psychopath, he wouldn't kill John. He'd never hurt him purposely. He was vaguely aware that he was being mildly sedated and forced back into his bed, when did they even get him back to his room? Thinking quickly he convincingly rolled his eyes into the back of his head and slipped the lids closed, going limp. No need to further sedate somebody who was already unconscious. This obviously convinced the doctors, apparently attributing his too fast pulse as an after effect of his episode.

After a few minutes of reconnecting his machines and sensors the doctors left him in peace. Well, peace may not of been the best word, the detectives mind was in turmoil. He could always trust himself, he was a constant, now he wasn't. This had only happened once before. Baskervile, the one time in his life he couldn't trust his own senses but then he had John. John had been his constant then, the level head. Now not only could he not trust his own thoughts, he had nobody to keep him balanced out. He was completely alone and confused.

Slowly he slipped further and further into darkness, voices floating through his head as he did so. Just like when he had first woken he had trouble making them out there was defiantly, 'Run!', 'No!' and 'John' though.

The last thing he heard before completely lapsing into sleep was the memory of his own screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

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><p>"Sherlock would you please just go home?" Lestrade pleaded, "I got you discharged early because you promised you wouldn't push yourself!<p>

"John could be bleeding to death in a ditch Lestrade, my health is not important." Sherlock huffed and he walked down the street.

They had left the hospital an hour ago, Lestrade had tried to get Sherlock a cab back home but the man had refused and was now wandering the streets in an effort to invoke a memory.

"Surely Baker Street would be a good place to start," Lestrade tried, "You obviously made your way back there-"

"After leaving John." Sherlock cut in, "Why would I willingly leave John, Lestrade?"

"I don't know Sherlock but you're just going to wind up back in hospital if you keep pushing yourself!" The older man said with exasperation.

He hated it when Lestrade was right, he just couldn't take it anymore. Lying there in a bed doing nothing, it was bad enough at the best of times, this was the worst of times. Every minute he spent not looking for his friend felt wasted. But logically, Baker street was a good place to start. Grumbling they walked towards his flat, passing into an alley a few blocks away.

_"No!"_

Sherlock clutched his head as the voice bounced around inside his skull, he felt Lestrade's hands on his shoulders keeping him upright. This time there was no flash or black spots, only voices, jumbled together making no sense. The sound of a gun, smashing glass, a yell, himself screaming John's name.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice cut through the haze, blearily Sherlock looked up around the alley they were standing in.

"Something bad happened here Lestrade..." He whispered, he was sure, "I got away..."

"What was it?" Lestrade asked gently, lowering the detective down to the ground before he fell over. Sherlock could feel the cold ground through his clothes.

_Gunshot. Blood. Yell. Smashing glass. Pain in his hand. voices. John. _

_John was running. Sherlock was behind him, was he chasing him? Was John running from Sherlock or with him? He couldn't tell the memory was all fuzzy._

"I-I don't know." Sherlock mumbled, "Search the alley, you'll find blood"

Lestrade got up and searched the alley as requested while Sherlock heaved himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, was this shock?

"Sherlock, over here" Lestrade motioned to a broken window, the glass had blood on it.

"That's how I cut my hand." Sherlock said grimly, "I know it."

"There is a bit of dried blood on the ground and walls here, I'd say it was gun fire blood spatter." Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock pressed his bandaged palms into his eyes in frustration, somehow he felt he could pull the memories forward if he tried. Was this was the place where he attacked somebody, when the rage took over? The comfortable darkness created by his closed eyes was suddenly invaded by a memory, it was short and fuzzy but it played over and over again.

_John was standing over him, he was bleeding from a hole in his side, his face was frozen in shock. Then he crumbled onto his knees, arms wrapping around his stomach. His other injuries forgotten._

_"Sh-Sherlock-"_

"Sherlock!" it was Lestrade talking now.

"Lestrade get me out of here." Sherlock whispered still not opening his eyes.

"What's happening Sher-"

"Now, Greg!" Sherlock practically begged.

"Alright, alright" Lestrade hushed leading the detective out of the alleyway and out onto the street. Sherlock didn't even care that people were staring. Finally they arrived at the doors to 221b Baker street, his breathing evened out as he closed the door.

The inspector quickly deposited him in his usual chair.

John had been hurt, he was begging Sherlock to help him, why had Sherlock left? Why did he leave him? His only friend! Why?

Something warm was pushed between his fingers, it took a worrying amount of time for him to realize it was a mug of warm tea. He sipped at it slowly, embarrassed to see his hands were trembling slightly.

"What did you remember?" Lestrade asked softly kneeling in front of Sherlock's chair.

"We were in that alley, I don't know when." Sherlock explained finally regaining some composure, "I think John was the one who was shot..."

"Blood analysis will show as much, I agree" Came the smooth voice of his brother.

Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, leaning on his ever present umbrella.

"Mycroft." Sherlock growled, "Why did you not help us? You can control the CCTV, you must of seen us!"

"Contrary to your beliefs I do not have your flat bugged, the street outside however I do" Mycroft replied, "You left your flat normally enough, therefore I had no reason to worry until you didn't return"

"What about when we were in that alley Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, "That would of been seen!"

"That, was on Wednesday night, I hardly look to that alley every time you go missing," Mycroft growled, "By the time I had found you, Lestrade was already with you, therefore I see no reason for my intrusion."

"Then why poison my air with your presence now?" Sherlock spat.

"Is it a crime to want to check up on ones little brother?" Mycroft sighed.

"Unless you can help me find John, leave." Sherlock demanded curtly , all this arguing was giving him a headache, usually a little squabble with Mycroft wasn't so bad, he could embarrass him and John would snicker. Right now though, John wasn't here and Sherlock didn't have the energy.

"Sherlock, you're brother is just trying to help." Lestrade pointed out, "With his influence I'll bet we ca get the CCTV tapes and find out where you went."

"It would be best if you watched the footage Sherlock, I believe it may help you." Mycroft held a disk in the air, about to slip it into the DVD player above the tv. As much as Sherlock disliked Mycroft he had to admit he could be helpful, even if he did play mind games.

Mind games.

Games.

His head exploded in pain and bright white lights, it felt as if he was actually experiencing two days worth of events in seconds. He grabbed his head in a vain attempt to make the thousands of images and sounds stop bombarding his brain, he was going to overload!

"Brother, listen to me!" Mycroft's voice cut through the haze for a few seconds, that wasn't right. Mycroft sounded, panicked. Mycroft was always calm, no matter what the situation. He groaned, nothing made any sense!

Mind games. Mind games. Games!

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, barely taking in the worried faces of his brother and Lestrade.

"Moriarty..." He whispered, so quietly it was barely audible.

Then he felt his energy drain from him like water out of a sink, it was just gone. He fell forwards, vaguely aware that he was falling into Mycroft's arms, he didn't care his eyes were already closed. He was so tired...

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" Mycroft was shaking him gently, Sherlock paid him no heed. He didn't have the strength to, instead he sunk downwards.

And remembered.

**Next Chapter: Finally Sherlock remembers everything he forgot! And why he forgot.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for the reviews :) They make me wanna write all the more! More of Sherlock's memories coming up next!**

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><p>Mycroft had not held his brother since they were children, the last time Sherlock would of only been four years old at the most. They simply were not a family that showed affection, of course he did care for Sherlock but any hugs given at this age would be more awkward than helpful. Which is what made this situation slightly strange for the elder Holmes, not that he had time to think about that, he was too busy worrying about the man who had just collapsed and fallen from his chair.<p>

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" He hissed, giving him a light shake, the man didn't open his eyes.

With the help of Lestrade they eased Sherlock into his bed, Mycroft could see his eyes darting about behind closed lids. No doubt this unnatural sleep would not be a restful one, sighing both the elder men pulled up a chair and waited.

_..._

_"I still think you should of eaten a little more Sherlock, now that the case is over," John sighed, "You've barely eaten in days and you can't make up for it with a few slices of garlic bread and a few mouthfuls of pasta."_

_"I had water too." Sherlock pointed out, "Food is a waste of time."_

_John rolled his eyes, but he still smiled slightly, he was used to Sherlock by now, quirks included. They were walking, chatting about the case, what an idiot the murderer had turned out to be, how Anderson lowered everybody IQ's. After a few minutes John suggested they play a little game he'd dubbed 'Deduction'. The rules were simple, John would pick a random person on the street and Sherlock had 30 seconds to tell John as much as he could about them, with proof of course. _

_Sherlock pretended it didn't excite him when ever John suggested it, he loved showing off almost as much as he enjoyed John's praise when ever he made a particularly difficult deduction. They were just starting when he felt something clamped over his mouth, a rag and it stank of chloroform. Dizzied by the initial intake of breath due to shock he was hauled into the alley, John was receiving the same treatment. Sherlock struggled with all his might by more hands were holding him down and the drug was fuzzing his brain. His vision began to go, he heard the dull thuds of somebody being hit beside him but it didn't register until he felt something hard smash against the side of his skull and everything fell away..._

_..._

_Unlike his decent into unconsciousness the reverse journey took only a few seconds, snapping awake almost instantly. Slowly he sat up, he had a few scrapes and bruises from the struggle, nothing he couldn't handle, so he looked around trying to deduce where he was. The room was smooth, cold, concrete, the only light was coming from a small barred window near the roof, he could tell the window was at ground level. That meant he was in a basement of some kind. He wasn't able to deduce much more, partly because there was little to deduce but mostly because a groan broke his concentration. _

_John!_

_The man didn't look any worse than Sherlock, a few scrapes, practically nothing, the groan was most likely due to his body not completely excreting the chloroform yet. Unlike Sherlock, John had no tolerance for drugs. _

_"Where are we?" John asked as he heaved himself into the sitting position tapping his pockets, "My phones gone."_

_Sherlock dipped his hand into his coat, it closed around his mobile, fishing it out only to see that the battery was flat. Considering that it was on 11% last he checked at Angelo's they had been here at least four hours. _

_"I don't know," Sherlock murmured as the metal door creaked open, "But I think we will find out soon..."_

_"Evening boys!" Came the all too feminine voice of Moriarty, dressed as immaculately as ever in his Westwood suit._

_"Should of know." John groaned, standing up as Sherlock was, "What do you want Moriarty?" _

_"Please John, call me Jim!" He smiled, "And just the usual."_

_"To burn the heart out of me I suppose." Sherlock drawled, noting the guards coming in to stand at their masters heels like the dogs they were. _

_"To have a little fun!" Moriarty exclaimed with bright eyes, "Restrain him."_

_"Sherlock!" John cried jumping forwards only to be pushed backwards by two of Moriarty's henchmen while the others restrained the detective. Sherlock struggled against their strong arms but they were both twice his size. He didn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of a reaction as the man drew his pocket knife across his face from his eye to his lip. It seemed this displeased their host because he pulled back a hand and punched him, right on the cut making the blood spurt across his face and Sherlock gasp slightly. _

_"No! Don't!" John yelled_

_"Your pet is becoming annoying Sherlock," Moriarty growled, "Perhaps I should silence him."_

_Sherlock pulled against his captors, he wouldn't let him touch John. So help him if Moriarty laid a finger on his friend he'd never be satisfied until a bullet was in his brain. _

_"Look at you Sherlock," Moriarty sighed, looking disappointed, "You were so great, now your all sentimental."_

_As he spoke Moriarty motioned for John to be bought forward, the doctor struggled and fought the entire way. Sherlock did as well but it was useless, for once his thin body was working against him and the strong men simply held him tighter, wrenching his arms behind his back. _

_"I'm sooooo disappointed in you," Moriarty continued, "But, at least this means we can play a new game now Sherlock. I call it "The See How Long It Takes To Break You' game!"_

_"Stupid name." Sherlock spat, Moriarty just grinned._

_"You think so do you?" He drawled casually inspecting the pocket knife before shooting Sherlock a daring look and swiping it across John's torso. Sherlock looked on in horror as a small line of red formed across John's chest, seeping into his jumper. _

_Sherlock felt something snap inside him, he was angry, no furious! He'd never been so angry in his entire life, rage filled him. How dare he! Somehow he ripped himself free of his captors with some unknown strength, he lunged forward, ignoring his own pain and closed his palm around Moritaty's neck. For once in his life he wasn't thinking about what was the most logical move to end the fight quickly. This time he just wanted to hurt, cause his victim as much pain as humanly possible. He could feel Moriarty struggling against him, clawing his face, landing a heavy low to Sherlock's temple. _

_Despite the sickening dizziness that followed Sherlock wrenched the knife from his hands, ready to plunge it into the mans chest when all four of the guards ripped him off the other man. Dusting himself off Moriarty drew his gun._

_"Didn't think I would come in here without back up plan did you?" He sneered, "You may wait outside boys."_

_Slowly Sherlock was released, still holding the knife but now at gunpoint._

_"Well that was interesting wasn't it?" Moriarty smiled darkly, "I'd love to play with Johnny here too, what do you think Sherlock? Should I take you with me or Johnny boy? I've got lots of better toys down the hall."_

_"Don't go!" John's voice cut in, Sherlock looked down at where he were kneeling, arms wrapped around his torso to stop the bleeding. The knife felt like it was burning Sherlock's hand. _

_"Sherlock please..." He begged, "Don't go with him, he'll kill you!" _

_Sighing Sherlock dropped the knife, he didn't have any choice._

_"I'll go with you, leave John alone." He replied icily, Moriarty's face lit up like a child on Christmas day. _

_"No!" John yelled getting to his feet, Moriarty pointed the gun at his forehead, making him freeze in place._

_"Sherlock please control your pet or he'll have to be put down." The man mad grinned. _

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, he'd never loathed somebody so much in his entire life. He sent John a look which he hoped conveyed all he couldn't say out loud._

_Don't listen to him._

_I'm sorry._

_Please don't do anything stupid._

_I'll figure this out, I'll save us. _

_John seemed to get the message but he didn't move, Moriarty, apparently sick of waiting pointed the gun back at Sherlock waving it slightly toward the door._

_"Go on, out we go, we're going to have some fun!" He exclaimed, "See you later Johnny boy!"_

_Sherlock risked a glance back, the last thing he saw before the metal door clanged shut was the worried look on John's face. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the slow update I've been sick. Here's the next chapter :)**

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><p><em>Sherlock was led down the dark grey corridor, he tried to take in as many details as possible but it was hard, the only light came through more thin windows at ground level. Similar to the one in their cell only significantly bigger. To his dismay the guards practically threw him down a stair case leading even further into the ground. The room had no windows, just a bulb hanging from the room. There was a chair and a table containing several instruments off to the side but besides that it was completely bare, cold concrete. <em>

_"Right then, first off lets get all the fire out of you!" Moriarty declared, Sherlock had been about to ask him what he meant when he felt his coat and scarf being tugged ruffly off him as he was thrown into he middle of the room. The six men closed in before he had a chance to think, the first blow was to his side. _

_Naturally he fought back, and he landed quite a few hits too. Pleased to note two of the men now had black eyes and another a bloody nose. However he could only do so much, it was six muscled henchmen against one thin detective. He lost count of how many minutes went by as the beating continued, finally after a particularly hard hit to the stomach Sherlock fell. He choked trying to get air into his winded lungs as he knelt pathetically on the floor bent over himself. _

_He groaned when two pairs of hands jerked him to his feet and tired him into he chair with his arms behind his back. Moriarty was standing by the door smiling, Sherlock gave him what he hoped was a scathing look from under his dark curls. The man waved his minions away to 'guard the doctor', Sherlock felt his heart clench. _

_"Now, let's have some fun shall we, I made this just for your little visit you know." He announced gleefully picking up a syringe from the table. It was filled with a misty substance Sherlock didn't recognize._

_"I got a sample of that marvelous H.O.U.N.D drug from Baskerville," Moriarty continued, "Then of course I got creative, this will be much more fun. At least I hope so. I'm yet to try it on a human being." _

_Instinctively Sherlock flinched away as the man closed in on him, Syringe poised and ready. All the while Moriarty kept up his monologue._

_"I've mixed many little things into this concoction, I wonder how much it would take to make you go man," He said innocently as if he wasn't about to poison a man, "I'll be surprised if you remember any of this, I doubt your brain could handle it."_

_Not that he would admit it but Sherlock was scared, just a bit. He stopped himself from begging though, he'd never beg. Especially when he knew if they let him go it would be John taking his place. He felt the needle slip under the skin on his wrist, he gasped when Moriarty pushed the plunger down much too fast and the substance shot into his system. At first he felt nothing but the pin prick of the needle, then the burning started. It was as if he had been injected with fire and now it was spreading through his body. He cursed his heart for beating faster in response, it only sped of the spread of pain. _

_Moriarty was saying something but Sherlock's brain was too busy trying to comprehend the pain his body was feeling to care about what he was saying. He wasn't even aware that he had been untied until he hit the floor. He yelped in pain as he came into contact with the icy concrete, the coldness was so radical from the stifling heat his body was suffering through. He had always been in control of his body, it was a vessel for his brain, he could control pain, illness. But not this. He just couldn't think!_

_He screamed._

_It made his throat burn but once he'd started he couldn't seem to stop, he felt hands grabbing him and dragging up back up the stairs. Finally something cut through the haze._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Thump!_

_"Sherlock! Sherlock!"_

_Thump._

_It was John who was yelling for him, he opened his eyes, not even aware they had closed, to see the metal door to the first cell he'd been in. John was trying to break down the door. Finally he managed to stop the yelling, the pain was still there, but slowly, oh too slowly, it was dulling. The guards opened the door and threw Sherlock inside, he landed sprawled out on the floor still shuddering with pain. _

_"Sherlock!" John cried again, the detective couldn't bare to move incase his limbs caught on fire again. He just looked blearily up from his place on the floor instead. Eyes widening in horror as the two men followed him into the room and descended on John, landing a blow to his temple. _

_"No!" He begged weakly, "I went with you leave him alone!"_

_He wanted nothing more than to get up and help his friend but his body wouldn't listen. He could only watch, helpless as John's wound reopened and he began to loose the fight. It went on for an eternity, John wouldn't survive this he knew it. The pain of the drug was gone, leaving his body limp, his injuries ached but he didn't care._

_"Stop it, please!" Sherlock yelled not really caring about his dignity anymore. _

_Then he felt a cold palm against his head, it made him blink in shock, nobody had been there a second ago._

_"It's not real," A voice whispered, "Please wake up, it's not real."_

_Wake up? But he was awake. _

_Slowly he became aware that something soft was under his head and that it was John's voice speaking to him. How was that possible? The vision of the beating seemed to waver and disappear before his eyes, slowly he turned his head in the direction of the voice. John was kneeling over him, his shirt was cut but his jumper was missing. It must of been what was under his head, he could tell the non bloody side was resting against his skull, he couldn't feel the blood. _

_"John?" He croaked_

_"God Sherlock I thought you'd never come around," John sighed in relief. He was fine, the gash across his chest hadn't been as deep as the detective though, it was now healing up. The blow to his temple looked as if it hurt but he had not been beaten to death as Sherlock believed. _

_"They punched me in the face and left, you just started freaking out!" John exclaimed, "No matter what I did you just kept staring into empty space begging somebody to stop."_

_"Baskerville drug," He muttered, he felt weak, "It was in the solution Moriarty injected, it still has the same effect..." _

_"You saw me being beating attacked didn't you?" John mumbled, "You kept saying things."_

_"We need to get out of here." Sherlock announced heaving himself off the floor with effort, "I don't want another dose of that drug and trust me, Moriarty will have more. Enough for both of us."_

_"I agree but you're in no shape to make a daring escape" John pointed out. _

_"Well I doubt my condition will improve upon a longer stay." Sherlock snapped, "There are windows, outside, if we can smash one we could climb through and out onto the street we just need to figure out how."_

_"I have an idea." John said quietly, "I don't know how effective it will be but..."_

_"Just spit it out John, we need to get out of here and my brain," Sherlock paused trying to fight a wave of nausea, "It's really working for me right now."_

_"Are you familiar with the term, Playing Possum?"_


	7. Chapter 7

**Man this flashback is taking way longer than I thought!**

* * *

><p><em>John's plan was good, they planned their escape for the next morning. Or at least what they could guess would be morning, all they had to go on was the light coming from the thin, dirty window in their cell. Unfortunately, their captor had other plans. <em>

_Sherlock had been resting against the wall, having given back John's jumper to the doctor. It may be slightly bloodied and ripped but the cell was cold. John had argued that Sherlock should keep it, especially since his own coat and scarf had been taken but Sherlock refused. It's not like it would of fitted him anyway. They were about to implement their plan when Moriarty's dogs entered the room before they had a chance. Two held Sherlock against the wall, he closed his eyes, bracing himself for the punishment that never came. _

_When a few seconds passed without a hit he opened his eyes. Three men were forcing John from the room, no doubt down to Moriarty's torture chamber. _

_"John!" Sherlock cried and began to struggle, "No, stop it! Moriarty! Where are you? You coward!"_

_Sherlock's yelling didn't help and Moriarty didn't even show his face, he was probably already waiting downstairs for John._

_"I'll be fine Sherlock!" John yelled though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that. They both knew he was lying anyway, once Moriarty got through with him he'd be anything but fine. _

_Once John was gone Sherlock was released, he tried to make a run for the door but was roughly pushed to the ground by one of the guards. By the time he got to his feet the door was shut and he was alone. Grinding his teeth together in frustration he paced the room for a few minutes before settling back down against the wall. Desperately he tried to think of a way he could break out, get to John and then escape without being caught. Nothing came to mind. _

_After a few minutes there was a yell from John, it was quick and cut off. Sherlock prayed he stopped the cry but choice not by force. The door creaked open a few minutes later, Sherlock's head shot up to see Moriarty grinning at him through the barely open door, he was holding something in his gloved hand but before Sherlock got a chance to look it flew towards him landing on his chest and sliding onto his lap. Moriarty gave him a wink and shut the door once more. Sherlock became aware that whatever it was, it was wet and soaking into his clothes, he looked down and his breath seemed to leave him._

_It was John's jumper._

_Only it was red. Every inch of it was covered in blood there was no cream colour left! _

_"John!"  
>SHerlock yelled banging on the door. <em>

_Silence._

_Oh God..._

_Hours passed. Still nothing. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. _

_Once again Moriarty entered, Sherlock attempt to rush past him to get to John but his dogs held him back._

_"You like my gift Sherlock?" The mad man grinned_

_"Where is he? What have you done to him!" Sherlock growled_

_"Now, now, he's just taking a little...nap," Moriarty supplied, "I'll wake him up soon though, so we can have a little fun."_

_Sherlock snarled._

_"Or, e could make another deal." Moriarty offered reveling another syringe of his concoction, "You can have another dose and John could rest. Or you can rest and John will take the dose."_

_"I'll take it." Sherlock replied without hesitating. John could be in any condition right now, the drug could push him over the edge. _

_"Interesting...these little experiments of mine are proving interesting." Moriarty muttered to nobody in particular as he approached, injecting the detective. Sherlock didn't fight him. This time he knew what to expect and din't give Moriarty the satisfaction of screaming. He fell to the floor gasping for breath and shuddering but he bit his lip, forcing his mouth to stay shut. Once again fire filled his veins, at some point Moriarty and his men left but SHerlock couldn't be sure. This dose was stronger he was sure, the whole world slipped in and out of focus so badly he couldn't tell what was real anymore. _

_Visions of the horror hound from Baskerville, Moriarty and a dying John sifted through his vision. He told himself they were not real, that didn't make the visions any less terrifying. _

_"You idiot, you bloody idiot!" _

_John was standing over him glaring at him with blood red eyes, he whimpered. _

_"I'm sorry..."_

_slowly the vision faded and Sherlock became aware somebody was pressing his arms against his body with their own limb. A kind of hug from behind while sitting on the ground. He looked fearfully down at the arms holding him and saw it was John, relieved he finally relaxed. John, sensing this let him go slowly. The detective hadn't even realized the door had opened. _

_"You idiot, I could of handle it." He hissed_

_"Are you alright, your jumper..." Sherlock muttered turning round to face his friend._

_John looked as if he'd been beaten, his skin was molted with bruises and a few cuts, he could tell from the extra blood on his shirt that his wound had reopened at some point. But there was no gaping wound as Sherlock suspected._

_"They beat me senseless," John said honestly, "Then Moriarty had me hooked up to a kind of tubing and drained my blood to cover the jumper. I'm so sorry Sherlock, you shouldn't of taken the second dose."_

_Sherlock would of taken the dose regardless of John's condition but he didn't say so. _

_"We need to implement our plan," He said instead._

_"No, Sherlock you can barely stand-"_

_"We waited too long last time, now is our best chance." He hissed_

_John nodded._

_"Alright"_

_..._

_Sherlock laid on the cold floor, his head in John's lap. His eyes were closed and he made a show of gasping for breath as if breathing was a great difficulty. He prayed Moriarty wasn't lying about never testing his mix on a person before. _

_"Help!" John bellowed, "Moriarty, anybody! Open the door!"_

_Finally the sound of the door being slammed open and three sets of footsteps, two heavy, one light. Moriarty and two henchmen, good._

_"Your bloody injections!" John continued dramatically, "They're killing him!" _

_"Check him over." Moriarty ordered cooly, he could tell by the tone the madman didn't want him dead just yet. _

_He waited until he could feel the warmth of the man's hand reaching to take his pulse before his eyes flew open and kneed the man in the crotch. Taken by surprise it was easy to relieved the man of his firearm and whack him over the head with it. It took even less time for him to start firing at Moriarty and his other henchman. None of the shots hit._

_John by now was on his feet and out in the corridor, smashing the window his his shoe of all things. Sherlock followed him, slamming the door closed behind him._

_"Quick, his men will be here any second!" Sherlock hissed giving John a boost to the window which he climbed out of much too slowly. Sherlock had barely crawled out onto the street when the other men arrived, his leg still hanging on the inside of the window. He felt a sharp pain in his ankle. Yanking it free to see a razor of ll things sticking out of it. _

_He stood up, swaying with the effort. The drug was still in his system and making him dizzy, John grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him forwards. By now it was late at night, very late, very few people were around. How long had he been hallucinating? _

_They ran through the streets not really sure where they were going. Finally sighs and building began to look familiar as they headed in the right direction. If he could just get back to Baker Street, he could plug in his phone and call Lestrade or even Mycroft. Really he just had to get to Baker Street, he was sure Mycroft had the place bugged. However he was still weak from the drugs and John from his beating. The razor in his ankle wasn't helping things either, it made him limp terribly._

_They passed into an alley near Baker Street when the entire world spun sending Sherlock sideways, hand reaching out to support him smashing into a glass window. A sharp pain shot through his fingers and the glass embedded itself in his flesh. John ran to him but didn't have a chance to say anything before the click of a gun aught their attention._

_Moriarty was standing at the entrance to the alley, a van and his men behind him._

_"Not so fast, we weren't done playing!"_

_..._

Back in reality Mycroft laid a cool cloth on Sherlock's burning forehead. He hadn't been conscious for almost 24 hours now and yet he hadn't rested either. There had been awful times in which the younger Holmes had almost screamed himself horse and other times when when he muttered under his breathed. His eyes were continually flicking under his lids, Sherlock was remembering he was sure.

Lestrade had wanted to return Sherlock to the hospital when his fever became higher but moving him simply wasn't an option. Mycroft had no choice, he simply had to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Finally! The search from John begins soon!**

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><p><em>"Now, are you going to come quietly?" Moriarty asked indicating to the open van waiting for them at the end of the alley. Sherlock didn't even have to look at John to know how was smiling like he was.<em>

_"Never." John spat._

_They both knew that the click of the madman's fingers meant they were going to be attacked. Despite their injuries and Sherlock continuing weakness to the drug they struck a fighting stance. The scuffle went on for some time, Sherlock couldn't really tell. It was a blur of pain and hits, at one point he felt something slice the skin behind his ear._

_He felt satisfaction that he managed to break somebody's nose however he was distracted when he heard a gun click. All too late he saw that the henchmen had cleared a line between him and Moriarty, his hand gun was pointing at Sherlock's chest._

_They say the world slows down and your life flashes before your eyes in these sorts of moments but it didn't It did the complete opposite and everything seemed to go faster like God had hit the fast forward button of the remote of life. There was a sharp pain in his shoulders, but not from a bullet, from two hands pushing him down onto the ground. Then John was standing over him, where he had been seconds before._

_BANG!_

_A hole ripped through John's stomach, just off the left, Sherlock flinched as the blood soaked into his clothes. John's eyes were wide like he couldn't understand what happened, then he was falling, arms wrapped around the wound in a hopeless attempt to stop the bleeding._

_"Sh-Sherlock..."_

_The detective was on his knees in seconds stopping his friend from falling over, he pushed his hands into the wound ignoring the sting from the fresh glass cuts. _

_"You'll be fine, You'll be alright." Sherlock insisted ignoring the dizziness in his brain. _

_"Sherlock I must say, I always get my best ideas when you're around!" Moriarty's voice cut in and suddenly John was being dragged away from him by Moriarty's goons._

_He struggled to his get and leapt at them, fighting with everything he had to try and get John back. He had to keep pressure on the wound! If he didn't..._

_He cried out in pain as something heavy and metal came down on his head. For a few seconds he saw stars as the dizziness he'd barely been fighting back took over and sent him spiraling to the ground. The blood loss, drug and injuries were finally beginning to incapacitate him, why now of all times! He needed to get to John! He was being put inside the van, by the time Sherlock had struggled to his feet only Moriarty was still outside, ready to step into he vehicle the moment Sherlock came toward him. _

_"You like puzzles," He smiled, "How about we play hide n seek? I hope your quick Sherlock, I don't know how long Johnny boy will last!"_

_With that he jumped inside the van and the doors closed, it sped off into the night. He was so exhausted that he wasn't even thinking straight, part of him wanted to run after them but logically he knew he'd never catch them. He had to get to Baker Street and call somebody. Mycroft._

_He had to get to Mycroft. He cared, deep down he knew his brother cared about him, he'd help him. If he could just get to his phone charger..._

_ ..._

Mycroft was a solitary man by nature, in the last day and a half while he'd been caring for Sherlock he found company quite annoying. Lestrade was nervous and sleep deprived due to the search for John and Mrs. Hudson was simply smothering. He had not spent so much time with his brother in one sitting for years.

"Mycroft..."

The elder Holmes looked over the edge of his paper back, for a second he thought Sherlock had woken up but a quick examination proved him wrong. He was muttering in his sleep again, however he hadn't said Mycroft's name before, only John or Moriarty. Why would Sherlock be saying his name? He despised his elder brother.

"Mycroft...help..."

Sherlock was still remembering. Which meant, at some point during his two day absence, he was calling for Mycroft to help him. Sherlock would never do such a thing unless it was desperate.

"Please Mycroft." Sherlock whimpered.

The ice man felt guilt rising up in his stomach.

For some reason ever after Sherlock stopped his begging Mycroft found he couldn't continue reading.

...

_Somehow, he made it to his front door. It was late, he'd not passed a single person who could help him on his painful journey here. His brain was hardly functioning anymore the after effects of the drug were so much worse this time. Were he thinking clearly he'd of gone to Mrs. Hudson for help instead of climbing the seventeen stairs to his flat. _

_With shaking hands he grabbed his phone from his pants pocket, it was cracked from the attacks but hopefully it would still work. A wave of pain sent he sideways, dropping the phone as he opted to support himself along the wall._

_Pain killers, he needed pain killers. Then he could call for help he stumbled along the wall until he reached his bathroom. God he was so tired, but he had to stay awake, he had to save John..._

_The world tilted sideways and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. _

_ ..._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he shot into the sitting position gasping for air. He felt like he hadn't tasted oxygen in a week. It took him several long seconds to realize he wasn't laying on the floor of his bathroom, those two days had been a flashback, he was in his bed. He'd passed out.

"Breath Sherlock." Mycroft hushed, he was sitting on the bed next to him.

It may of been the shock he was suffering from, his brother was a manipulative prat but Sherlock was so glad he was there. He placed his hands of Mycroft's shoulder and buried his face in his brothers suit. He felt Mycroft stiffen in surprise, but he didn't push him away.

"Brother...we have to find him..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello John!**

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><p>It took hours to explain the situation to Mycroft and Lestrade, the inspector had come running when he heard Sherlock was conscious again. In this time he had still been confined to bed, he'd tried to get out but every time Mycroft had pushed him back down.<p>

"Come on, we have to get searching!" The detective insisted

"We are searching," Lestrade replied, "Half the met is on the job."

"They've been on the job for three days now and they still haven't found him, I need to do it!" Sherlock growled finally getting past his brothers hands and standing up.

"I know where we were kept now, it's the best place to start, Moriarty would of left me a clue." He continued.

"Sherlock you can't go running after him, you've only had a few days rest, in an ideal world you wouldn't of even left hospital yet!" Mycroft scolded.

"Well this isn't an ideal world!" Sherlock argued, "I'm going after John, with or without your help!"

Mycroft stared at him intensely for a few seconds before sighing, Sherlock smiled, he had won. He'd do anything to make up for lost time and Mycroft knew it.

"Alright." The politician sighed, "Let's go."

…

The building was an old warehouse; they took the stairs down into the cold grey corridor that had been his prison just a few days ago. The place was seemingly abandoned now; even so Lestrade and his men went in first. Mycroft stayed with Sherlock, making sure he was in front of his little brother at all times, Sherlock hated being smothered but he knew there would be no winning if he fought it.

He creaked open the metal door to his cell, John's bloodied jumper was still on the floor, now a terrible shade of red-brown due to the dried blood. It made Sherlock's stomach churn.

"Remember if your injuries become to much, you go straight home." Mycroft hissed, "You can't help John if you are incapacitated."

Sherlock grunted in response and scanned the cell for anything else that could be of use. Nothing. The torture chamber was next, all the tools had been removed, only the table, chair and a few empty syringes were left.

And some puddles of dried blood.

No telling if they were there on John's first visit or not though.

Moriarty must of left a clue! He had to! Unless he planned on making Sherlock suffer, which wasn't surprising really.

"Here!" Came a voice from the other end of the room, for a few seconds Sherlock foolishly thought they'd found John but he soon realised if John was here he'd of noticed. It was one of the cops pointing to something smeared on the wall, it was dried blood but the message was clear enough.

_Blue Marine 32_

Sherlock's brain went to work. It was written in blood, a few days old at least, somebody had used a bloody finger to write it. Their hands had been shaking but even so Sherlock would recognise John's handwriting anywhere. Blue Marine was fishing dock a half hours drive from here, 32 was most likely a lot, boat or warehouse. Warehouse was the most likely candidate since Moriarty had such an affinity for them. Sherlock felt a smile touch his lips.

He knew where they were.

…

"Absolutely not Sherlock, Lestrade's men will take care of it." Mycroft insisted pushing Sherlock back into the car.

"They will botch it up!" Sherlock argued, "They always do, Moriarty will get away! He might take John with him!"

The dock was flooded with police officers that were currently storming the warehouses and gathering up Moriarty's men, no sign of John yet though, or the mad Irishman.

Sherlock pulled away from his brother who looked at him sternly but didn't go after him, even injured Sherlock knew he could outrun Mycroft. His elder brother really did need to get serious about his dieting.

The detective pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on slipping inside the warehouse when the police were searching, idiots, they were focusing on the obvious floors. If he knew Moriarty, and he did, John would be underground like before. He immediately went searching for a hidden door.

It took him several painstakingly slow minutes but he located it, hidden on the inside of a fake shipping crate. Jumping down the stairs two at a time he found himself in a large dark area lit only by hanging bulbs, there were several rooms; perhaps they had once been offices.

Sherlock quickly began unlocking each door, thankfully the locks were not German, those always took him longer to pick. With each room he got more and more dejected, perhaps he'd been wrong and John wasn't here…

Finally he opened the last door, not expecting to find anything, his eyes lit up at the dark shape that was obviously a person. They almost immediately narrowed however when he saw said person was in bad shape, very bad shape. He ran over and turned them on their back, it was John. Well, what was left of John.

The bruises and cuts from before hadn't healed and the cut across his chest was obviously infected if his high temperature was anything to go by. The gunshot wound had been treated, minimally; just enough to keep him from bleeding out but the bandages were in serious need of changing and were much too loose. It wouldn't surprise the detective if he peeled them back to find more signs of infection. There were several needle marks near the crook of his elbow, Sherlock prayed it wasn't the drug he'd suffered through but deep down he knew it was. The thing that made his blood boil however was his right arm, which had the words "Property of Jim Moriarty" carved into it.

"John," He called softly shaking him, no response.

Please please please don't be dead!

Panicking slightly Sherlock gathered John up in his arms and shook him more violently.

"Come on! John, wake up!"

Mercifully John's eyes fluttered slightly before cracking open, they were dull and glazed, but open none the less.

"Thought you weren't comin'" He chuckled darkly making him wince.

"Don't worry you'll be fine." Sherlock insisted, "I'm sorry I took so long."

"S'all right…" He muttered eyes closing again.

"No! Stay awake!" Sherlock yelled turning to the door, "Down here! Down here you idiots! Help!"

He could hear footsteps thundering down the stairs but by the time Sherlock turned back to the doctor he was already out cold once more. The EMT's practically had to pry Sherlock off John in order to start working on him, logically Sherlock knew they were trying to help but at the moment the only thing that registered was that they were trying to take John from him.

Suddenly Mycroft was there again, leading him back outside into the light following the stretcher that housed his friend back to the ambulance.

"I think you could do with a check in at the hospital yourself" Mycroft said gently pushing Sherlock down into he seat of his car, "You can see John once he'd stable."

"If he gets there." Sherlock muttered quietly so that only he could hear, "if."


	10. Chapter 10

**Emotions away!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced up and down the white wash hallway, usually when he needed to think he'd sit still for hours on end. Now he felt if he paused he'd explode. Seconds ticked by so agonisingly slow he felt like yelling at a God he didn't believe in to speed things up. John was still being worked on; he had been for hours now.<p>

Without even meaning to Sherlock began to work out the scenarios that could take place, narrowing it down to the most likely.

John survives and hates Sherlock for what he's done and he spends the remainder of his life alone.

John dies, Sherlock will follow of course.

John survives and things go back to normal.

The last was the least likely in Sherlock's mind, but it was the one he prayed for. John had to survive, he just had to. Even if he hated Sherlock and never wanted to see him again it would be better than John dying, at least that way Sherlock could observe him from afar. He could ensure he was safe.

Four hours…

Five hours…

Five and a half…

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing to face the doctor trying to reign in his emotions and appear calm, slipping on his mask of cold indifference.

"Your friend is stable and resting," The doctor announced, "He is still in bad shape but given the correct care he should recover over the next fortnight."

Sherlock felt dizzy with relief.

"Can I see him?" He asked trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. He wouldn't believe John was all right until he saw it with his own two eyes.

"His body's weak, he's unconscious." The doctor explained, "But yes you can if you want to."

He gave instructions to get to John's room in the ICU and Sherlock was gone before the final words were out his lips. Mycroft had ensured a private room at the end of the corridor, for that moment he loved his brother. Unlike his mad dash to arrive at the room he found himself pausing as his hand closed over the handle, finally easing it down and opening the door quietly.

John was pale but he looked much better than the last time the detective had laid eyes on him. Now the blood and grime had been cleared from his skin and the many cuts had been stitched up, Sherlock felt his hand fly over the two stitched cuts that adorned his own face. Now they both looked like Frankenstein monsters.

His arm was bandaged but his hands were free unlike Sherlock's bound digits, however they were still bruised badly. He assumed the bullet hole had been cleaned now, he could see the white bandages that no doubt covered his torso peaking out from under his hospital scrubs. He was hooked up to an IV as well as a ventilator and heart monitor, the latter was the only sound besides the soft hum of the sleeping man's breathing.

Not really sure what to do Sherlock deposited himself into a chair by John's bed suddenly feeling very tired, the days actions were catching up with his tired body. Without really thinking about it, he leaned forward, resting his head on his arms next to John on the hospital bed. John was safe. He could rest.

…

John awoke slowly, the first thing he became aware of was the soft warmth that he seemed to be wrapped in, it was so unlike the cold stone he'd been waking up on lately. The next thing he realised was that he wasn't alone; somebody was holding his hand lightly and leaning on his bed. Slowly he opened his eyes to find himself in a white room, a hospital if the heart monitor and ventilator was anything to go by. The plastic mask irritated his face and he wanted nothing more than to remove it but the form of Sherlock distracted him.

The detective was fast asleep, hand loosely gripping John's, he looked like hell. Though, he supposed he probably looked better than himself. John could tell the cuts on his face were healing nicely, he'd been fixed up for a few days at least but if the dark circles are his eyes were anything to go on, he hadn't been resting in that time.

Weakly he removed his hand from Sherlock's and placed it on his shoulder, shaking it lightly. Sherlock's eyes blinked open and for a second it seemed he didn't remember where he was but his grey eyes locked on John's blue ones and he was awake instantly.

"Oh good you're awake!" He smiled nervously, "I should call the doctors shouldn't I?"

John nodded, unable to speak with the mask covering his mouth. The doctors came in and check John over, happy to report his body was on the mend and that he could remove the breathing mask if he wished now that he was breathing fine on his own. The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes, then Sherlock and John were alone again.

"Moriarty?" John croaked

"Lestrade is on it, we didn't find him." Sherlock replied not meeting John's gaze, "I'm sorry I took so long."

"It's all right." John sighed, "I'm alive that's the important thing."

"It's all my fault…" Sherlock whispered, "I…I forgot…"

"You forgot?" John asked, what did he forget?

"The two days John," He admitted, "On Thursday I woke up, but I couldn't remember anything after going to dinner on Monday. That's why it took me so long to find you, I only remembered yesterday, so I only knew where to look then…"

For some reason Sherlock seemed to think it was his fault he lost his memories, like he willed it to happen. John honestly wasn't surprised, he'd had several doses of Moriarty's little concoction and he barely remembered them at all, thank God.

"Sherlock it's not your fault." John replied honestly, "With all the trauma your body went through it's no surprise your body went into shock to protect itself."

"You remember." Sherlock said bitterly, but John knew the bitterness was at his own weakness, not John.

"I was a solider, I was trained for that sort of thing." John said casually, "You were not, besides your brain wanted to protect itself, wouldn't want you becoming normal would we?"

"You…don't hate me?" He asked looking startled.

"Of course not," John laughed weakly.

"But if it wasn't for me Moriarty wouldn't have gone after you in the first place!" Sherlock exclaimed, this man really didn't understand at all did he?

"Sherlock you didn't mean for this to happen." John gave his hand a gentle squeeze, "I don't blame you, I never will."

Sherlock slumped over the bed again, hiding his face from sight and resting his forehead in John's arm. The doctor could feel the stitches in his forehead.

"You know you're my best friend right?" He said softly clutching his hand, "My only friend."

"You're my best friend too." John smiled

"I'm sorry for what happened." Sherlock apologised again, John had never seen him so emotional.

"I told you Sherlock it al-"

"No its not!" He hissed.

Silence fell after that, Sherlock didn't move for a long time, still resting against John's arm and for a moment the doctor thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he raised himself up, seemingly regaining control over himself again and looked John coldly in the eye.

"Tell me what happened." He ordered, John swallowed.

"Sherlock, you don't need to-"

"I do." He insisted.

John desperately didn't want to talk about his time with Moriarty. Especially since Sherlock felt so guilty already, he considered lying or at least sugar coating it but he knew Sherlock would catch on immediately, he sighed. He had no choice, the look in the detective's eyes showed him that much, he wasn't leaving till he had the whole story.

So, John took a deep breath,

And told him.


	11. Chapter 11

**The End :)**

* * *

><p><em>After being dragged away from Sherlock John's memory became hazy, he recalled being tossed in the truck and held down by Moriarty's men, not that they needed to. He must of passed out because the scene changed all most instantly, the van was gone and he was in another concrete room, a different one from before. Idly he wondered if he was in the same warehouse but deep down he knew that would be too easy. <em>

_Slowly he sat up, wincing as pain flared in his chest; the bullet hole had been tended to, badly. He could tell from the amount of blood seeping through the bandages were not tight enough and most likely the wound had not been cleaned either, he was in for a rough time. His stomach grumbled loudly but nobody came and gave him anything to eat, in fact, he didn't see anybody at all. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he'd simply had to stay here until Sherlock came and hope he didn't loose to an infection. _

_That was a fool's wish. _

_At first Moriarty didn't grace him with his presence, one of his dogs came in with the syringe. He thought about struggling but eventually just sat still while the man injected him. He was three times his own size and he still had his injuries to worry about, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. _

_The first injection made him scream like Sherlock had, he felt as if his blood has turned to lava and was slowly burning him from the inside out. When he dared to open his eyes he swore the room was on fire, the walls seemed to move and sway, red flames licked up them yet there was no smoke. For a minute he actually believed he'd died and gone to hell. _

_The second time, Moriarty decided to pay a visit._

_"How are we doing Johnny boy?" He grinned, "You look a little under the weather."_

_"Piss off." John swore leaning up against the cool wall, it made him aware that he was a lot hotter than he should have been._

_"Sherlock's taking his time isn't he?" The Irish man drawled, "So I'll just have to play with you, though, you're a lot less fun…"_

_"Sherlock will come." John said with finality, he knew the detective wouldn't leave him here._

_"Perhaps, honestly I expected him to of at least made a move by now…" The other man continued, reading his needle. _

_"So," He continued, "I've decided you can be my test subject!" _

_"You're sick." John spat_

_"You're just figuring that out now?" He raised an eyebrow, "Anyway, I need to know how much of this a person can take before dying, you're a person."_

_That's the last solid thing he remembered before more fire. This time there were images, floating around the flames that assaulted his eyes. He told himself the flames, the faces, the scenes that flashed through his head were all in his imagination but it didn't stop them from feeling real. _

_Everything after that was hazy, there were a few more injections, closer and closer together. Each time Moriarty entered the room his face seemed to twist and contort into a kind of half man half demon monster, John was sure he was going to be driven insane by this bloody drug…_

_…_

_Amazingly, for the first time in how every long he'd been here his brain was clear. No hallucinations and no fire. There was pain of course, from his bruises and cuts and of course his bullet wound but there was no pain from the drug. He savoured it for as long as he could from his place on the floor, no doubt he would be in any minute now…_

_That he was, but with a knife this time, no syringe. Usually a knife would of instilled fear in him, just a little. Instead it bought relief, he could only silently praise God it wasn't a syringe. He thought of Sherlock, the first time he'd been dosed with the drug how weak his body had been, how the man had managed to run after two doses was incredible. John couldn't even flinch as Moriarty bought the knife to his skin. It took him less than a minute to carve the words into his arm._

_"Since it appears Sherlock isn't coming for you I figured I'd better mark my property." Moriarty grinned, "You know how terrible theft is in this city." _

_"I don't think he can hear ya boss." One of the men muttered, "Catatonic or something."_

_"No, he can hear me, I know he can." _

_John wished he couldn't. _

_Despite the fresh pain from his arms John managed to drift in and out of sleep. He was exhausted, he wanted nothing more than to drift off to sleep but he knew he couldn't risk it. If he did his body would most likely shut down. _

_"John!"_

_Oh great, more hallucinations…_

_He felt a small amount of shock as somebody picked him up gently and started shaking him. A hallucination couldn't do that could it? He blinked open his eyes._

_Blue met grey._

_It was Sherlock. _

_…_

John felt uncomfortable after explaining himself, silence settled on the room afterwards. Sherlock didn't utter a sound.

"I told you I didn't remember much I…" John stammered over the words trying to figure out what to say to dispel the silence.

Sherlock finally made a wounded sound, leaning down on the bed again, gripping his chair. John could practically feel the guilt radiating off the younger man. John quickly pried Sherlock's fingers from his dark curls.

"Sherlock you're going to hurt yourself if you keep that up." John scolded.

"I deserve it…" He mutter but did as John said anyway, forming a pillow with his arms for his head to rest on.

"No you don't." John sighed, "Go on, you should get some rest, once we're both healed up we can go after Moriarty, make sure this doesn't happen again."

Sherlock nodded, John tried to sit up but ended up wincing. Sherlock eyed the painkiller button at the side of the bed and pressed down, the machine indicated a dosage of morphine was making its way through John's bloodstream. The doctor sighed contently, he could feel the drug pulling him under.

"Get some sleep too Sherlo'k…" He mumbled before closing his yes, he was asleep before he could hear the other mans reply.

…

Lestrade made his way to John's room to check up on him. The doctor had chuckled when he talked about the detective practically breaking the sound barrier running to the older man's room. He could feel his eyes widen when he entered, John was asleep and so was Sherlock.

The younger man was resting under one arm, the other lightly holding the doctors.

Sociopath my ass.

**Hurray!**

**If anybody is interested I'd like to see somebody write a sequel to this. I don;t have any ideas for it but I feel it could go somewhere. If anybody is interested please PM me!**


	12. Chapter 12

Sequels up!

Its called Through the Haze by **Black-Angel-001**


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